


when i tell him that i want it, he says "louder"

by notinthisarmy



Category: McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Drooling, FaceFucking, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Insults, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notinthisarmy/pseuds/notinthisarmy
Summary: "God, you wouldn't last a single round in this game, that makes me so sad.”“Well - hold on -” Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth he sort of regrets them. It’s an instinctual reaction to the tone of Griffin’s voice, dropping with condescension, and he feels the need to defend himself.“Oh, is there some category you think could save you?” There’s held-back laughter in Griffin’s voice now as he waves a hand at the screen.





	when i tell him that i want it, he says "louder"

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to my gf for her support and encouragement, and thank you to the group chat who put the idea of jeopardy in my head when i needed a good situation. 
> 
> title is once again from Macy Gray's "Bang Bang". it's a really good song, idk what to say. 
> 
> mind the tags; skip if humiliation isn't your jam.

“Who is Joan Cusack!”

Nick smiles at the enthusiasm, tucked into Griffin’s side with his phone out and only half his attention on the TV. They'd been flipping through channels idly, with Netflix as a backup if they found nothing; the fact that Griffin even has cable is still sort of fascinating to Nick. But he hadn't expected Griffin to get all excited to see _Jeopardy_ on the guide screen, much less declare that they had to watch it. His dad used to have it on all the time, he said, which doesn’t surprise Nick. This is the thirty-year-old who used to watch _Family Matters_.

Griffin turns, craning his neck to look down at Nick. “You don't - Nick, you didn't know _Joan Cusack_?”

Nick shrugs the shoulder that isn’t pressing into Griffin’s ribs. “I know the name?”

“Fucking _TOY STORY,_ Nick!”

“Is she - she's in that?”

“She’s Jessie!” Griffin huffs, looks back at the screen, and then, moments later, bursts out, “What is _Sleepless in Seattle_!”

Nick had barely even caught the question, but Griffin still looks at him bug-eyed. “Nicolas, you know _Sleepless in Seattle_. Tell me you know it.”

“Movie,” Nick sighs. “Coma, maybe? I don't know why you're still surprised, to be honest.”

“Because mankind is doomed to hold out hope for that which will never come? God, you wouldn't last a single round in this game, that makes me so _sad_.”

“Well - hold on -” Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth he sort of regrets them. It’s an instinctual reaction to the tone of Griffin’s voice, dropping with condescension, and he feels the need to defend himself.

“Oh, is there some category you think could save you?” There’s held-back laughter in Griffin’s voice now as he waves a hand at the screen.

Nick looks up and feels his heart sink. _The Entertainment Business._ Not a chance. _Busted_. What the fuck does that mean? _Prepositions_. Probably straight-up grammar questions. Nothing looks promising. The show goes to commercial, and Griffin hits the mute button.

“U.S. Geography?” he says, his voice small. It’s missing its 200 level, but surely he hasn’t forgotten all that much from school. The other categories are mystifying - at least he knows what this one’s about.

“Okay! Okay, yeah. Play a game with me. If you actually get a question in that category right, you get to tell me to do something. When you get a question in your category wrong, I get to tell you to do something.”

“Do something?” Nick feels something like suspicion waking up inside of him, and the blithe smile on Griffin’s face does nothing to quell it. Maybe suspicion isn’t the word; trepidation. It’s the peculiar energy in Griffin’s voice - it sparks equal parts excitement and fear in Nick’s belly.

“I mean, you can back out anytime. It would be tantamount to admitting you have less knowledge of the world than somebody raised by wild animals, but nobody’s stopping you.”

“You're the worst,” Nick grumbles, but he sits up and clicks off his phone screen. “All right.”

“ _I’m_ the worst,” Griffin says. “You’ve never seen _Sleepless in Seattle_ and _I’m_ the worst. Okay.”

When the show gets back, the next question is U.S. Geography for 600. Of course.

“The highest state capital in the U.S. at about 7,000 feet, it lies in the Northern Rio Grande Valley.”

Oh, Jesus. This was a mistake. Griffin’s looking at him, Nick can see it in his periphery, but he’s staring at the screen. He only has about a second, and nothing comes to mind; the contestant hits his button and gives the answer. “What is Santa Fe?”

Griffin sighs, even though Nick would bet deep down he’s pleased. The contestant asks for another category, and Griffin says, “Take off your shirt.”

Nick pulls his T-shirt off over his head and lays it over the arm of the couch. He can’t help but laugh a little in relief; somehow that hadn’t been what he’d expected.

“I don't know what's so funny about your brain being full of holes,” Griffin says, and his tone is mild, but - somehow a little sharp, too. So Nick wasn’t so off-base after all. There’s an itch, starting under his skin, but he settles back against Griffin, who’s wearing a blessedly soft henley that feels good on his bare arm.

One of the contestants gets the daily double, and Nick lets himself zone out a little. Griffin has an arm around him, and he’s starting to give Nick gentle scratches along his shoulder and bicep, the kind that make his brain go to static. It’s a strange kind of whiplash after the last thing Griffin said, but Nick doesn’t feel equipped to question it.

God, this show is boring. Nick doesn’t know what Griffin sees in it.

“U.S. Geography for 800.”

And just like that, Nick has to snap back to attention.

“This mountain system stretches about 1,500 miles from Maine to Alabama.”

Nick’s body floods with panic. He knows this, he _knows_ , he just - all he can think about is Griffin’s hand, the perfect pressure of his nails waking up every cell in Nick’s arm, and he hesitates too long.

“What is the Appalachian?” says a contestant on-screen, and Griffin fucking crows.

“Are you kidding me?” he says. Nick leans away from him, scoots out from under the shelter of his arm, and Griffin lets him go without complaint. “Nick, the _Appalachian_! Oh, buddy.”

“You're cheating,” he accuses, and his voice comes out embarrassingly meek. Like he’s not certain that Griffin was doing that on purpose, which he _is_. But Griffin doesn’t look guilty in the slightest.

“Maybe you're just that stupid,” Griffin says, unperturbed. “Take off your pants.”

Nick’s not wearing socks, so when he lays his pants over his shirt on the sofa, he's down to underwear now. “I didn't realize you just meant strip Jeopardy,” he says, although his pulse still doesn’t feel quite normal. “You didn't have to get me all nervous for nothing.”

Griffin smiles, lets out a little huff of breath that Nick can’t decipher. “You know what, screw what I said before. You can try any question, in your category or not. I mean, if you try and you're wrong, it works the same though.”

“Sure,” says Nick. He’s not going to take the risk.

The contestant who keeps picking U.S. Geography takes the 1000, which Nick knows he has no hope of getting. Sure enough, there’s not even a flicker of recognition in his mind at the question. He doesn’t bother trying; not even waiting for Griffin to speak, he’s reaching for his underwear almost the moment the contestant gives the right answer.

But Griffin’s voice stops him, suddenly stony, “Get on the floor.”

Nick freezes, his thumbs still hooked into his waistband. “What?”

Griffin puts a foot up against the coffee table and pushes it away, looking back at the TV now. “Get. On the floor. You dumbass.”

Nick moves, sort of haltingly, sliding off the sofa and onto the rug.

Okay. This is new.

He starts to leans his back against the sofa, but Griffin puts a foot between his shoulder blades and pushes, until he's hunching over, still kneeling, chest pressed to his thighs. “I can't see the screen,” he says, and he's surprised at how subdued his voice sounds. It doesn’t come out like a protest. He’s not sure if it is one. He steadies himself with his elbows in front of his knees.

Griffin's other foot lands on his back, and he crosses his ankles. Nick can feel the grain of his socks.

“Then you better pay attention,” says Griffin, and his tone says _duh_.

Nick swallows. The next question isn't in his category, and he doesn't know the answer anyway. Griffin does; gets it out in the same instant as the contestant.

“You know, I said you could speak up if you know one,” Griffin says, like it's a favour. “Even if it's not in your category.”

Nick doesn't answer - he doesn’t quite see the point, and besides, this position is doing funny things to his brain. He’s finding it hard to focus on anything except sensation - the weight of Griffin’s feet; the rough loops of the rug pressing into his skin, probably leaving pink and white patterns behind; the way his hair keeps tickling his face; the strange feeling of his dick, trapped and still getting harder.

Griffin doesn't let it go. The next thing Nick feels is a foot prodding his side, gently kicking, as Griffin goes, “Nick. Did you hear me or what?”

“I heard you,” Nick says, dropping his head, shifting his elbows to relieve the spots where the rug is starting to kill his circulation.

“Just checking. So you’re a fucking moron who’s never heard of _Cheers_.”

“Yes,” Nick says.

“You probably don't believe me, but I’d actually love for you to get a single goddamn question right for once,” Griffin says, and his voice is gone all exaggeratedly whiny, like it does when he doesn’t get his way. Funny, since he very much is. “Like, it was cute at first, but now it really is fuckin’ pitiful. You know? Like, do things just pass through your ears? Is _anything_ happening in there?”

Nick’s cock twitches. He’s so hard it hurts, and he can’t stay like this a minute longer; he arches his back, tries to relieve the pressure, and Griffin lifts his feet.

“Need to readjust?” he says, suddenly sweet. Nick lets out a breath, shifting onto elbows and knees, and Griffin puts his feet back down, digs his heels in just a little. “Is that ‘cause you're rock _fucking_ hard, Nicolas?”

Nick draws a ragged breath, but then he hears “U.S. Geography for 400” come out of the speakers, tinny and far-away, and he summons the last of his focus.

“About 140 miles east of San Francisco, you’ll find this National Park.”

And Nick, flushed and hard and with his heart hammering in his throat, is too excited he finally knows the answer to take a breath and make it come out right. “Yosemite!” he gasps, and Griffin laughs, full-bodied and genuine.

“What is Yosemite,” says the contestant, and Nick wants to bury his face in the rug and never come out.

“You forgot,” Griffin says, still laughing, “how the fucking game works, oh my god, _Nick_! How!”

“I dunno,” he mumbles, and his face is burning. He knew the answer. That should’ve been the hard part. Griffin mutes the TV and then lifts his feet off Nick’s back, and Nick hesitates, not sure if he should try and move.

“God, what am I gonna do with you, huh? I really didn’t think you’d get every single answer wrong, Nick. C’mon, sit up.”

Nick does, rubbing feeling back into the indented skin of his forearms. Griffin does a little come-hither whistle, and Nick doesn’t even think before he turns toward it. Griffin is grinning, triumphant, and Nick flushes all over again.

“At least you’re responsive, right?” Griffin says, glee written all over his face. Nick doesn’t say anything, just waits. Griffin’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Nick wishes he could see if Griffin is hard or not. No matter how often Griffin gets like this, there’s always that little shiver of doubt. Nick finds himself leaning forward, leaning in, stupidly hopeful.

“Open your mouth,” Griffin says, but he doesn’t make a move to get up or undo his pants. Nick doesn’t hesitate long, though, lets his jaw drop and trains his gaze on Griffin’s knees, waiting for them to part.

But they don’t.

“Good,” Griffin tells him, and leans back in his seat and unmutes the TV. Nick frowns, and something surges inside of him - resentment, hunger, the desperate need to please - and he only barely manages not to speak. Griffin is hard, but he’s got his arms crossed across his chest, pretending for all the world like he’s just watching TV. Nick feels a whine building inside of him. What would Griffin do if he let it out?

As it turns out, he can’t stop it, because Griffin, after a quick glance at Nick, reaches out and puts a hand on the top of his head. He tilts it down a little, just enough that Nick’s only view is of the edge of the sofa and the start of the rug, and then he lets go and the whine works its way out of Nick’s throat, because to be deprived of Griffin’s touch and the sight of him too -

“Shut up,” Griffin says. “It’s been like two seconds, and I wanna see the end of the show. Unless you think you should keep trying to play?” He snorts, turns up the volume a click.

Nick knows there’s not much left, but it’s so hard not to make a sound, not to touch himself. And he knows, without Griffin saying it, that he’s not allowed to touch himself.

It doesn’t take long before saliva starts to gather, in the well of his lower lip and the corners of his mouth. He tries to swallow, but without closing his mouth there isn’t much he can do. Griffin is silent, now, not even trying to shout out the answers before the contestants. Nick wonders if he’s watching; it’s impossible to crane his eyes enough to look.

When the show finally ends, Nick feels as though he's a heart-pounding second away from drooling on the floor. His mouth is flooded; there's a drop working its way over his bottom lip. But then Griffin says his name, and he looks up right as Griffin stands, undoing his fly and letting his pants drop to the floor. His boxers soon follow, and his shirt, and then he's stepping in close, till Nick has to crane his neck to look into Griffin’s eyes. They’re shuttered, impossible to read, and it's intensified by the way Griffin’s lit from behind, throwing his face into shadow. Nick doesn't try and talk, doesn't try and touch him.

“At least I know it's wet in there,” Griffin says, sounding a little bored, and then he takes Nick’s chin in his hand and curls his thumb into Nick’s lower lip, pulling it down until saliva starts to spill out. Griffin lets out a breathy laugh, and Nick shuts his eyes, fighting the urge to lift a hand and wipe it away.

Griffin lets go of his lip, cradles the side of his face and neck in one spread hand, and guides his cock into Nick’s mouth. He lets out a breathless noise as he sinks in, and Nick tries to seal his lips and suck but Griffin presses a thumb against his top lip, pulls it up. “Just stay like that,” he says, his voice tight. “You can do that, huh? Doesn't take any smarts to hold your mouth open.”

Nick lets out a whimper he hadn't known was coming. Griffin says, “Good. Stick out your tongue.” And he draws back, just enough for Nick to obey, just enough that Nick’s stupid enough to relax, before sliding back in, deeper, right to the back of Nick’s throat.

Nick’s chest seizes, but he manages to keep his jaw slack and to relax his throat again. Somehow it's harder like this, so slow, nothing pushing, forcing him to adjust. Just Griffin, asking - expecting - this one thing of him.

Griffin strokes a hand over his head, through his hair, shockingly gentle. His cock twitches on the back of Nick’s tongue. Nick does everything in his power not to gag.

When Griffin draws back again, he keeps one hand in Nick’s hair. The other wraps around his dick and jacks it a few times, mere inches from Nick’s mouth, and Nick realizes with a shudder that the intrusions have only made his mouth flood worse than before. Griffin uses the hand in his hair to tilt his head down just a fraction. Nick watches as saliva falls from his open mouth onto the carpet below and feels himself flush so hot that his head feels fuzzy.

“You making a mess in my living room?” Griffin asks, no longer trying to hide the quiet delight in his voice.

Nick’s instinct is to speak, but the sound he lets out is nothing like words. It's low and broken and made up of a single vowel, and it makes Griffin laugh.

“Come here,” Griffin says, and pulls him back in, rests his cock on Nick’s tongue. “It’s okay. I don't expect anything more from you.”

Nick’s jaw aches as Griffin slides into him again - still slow, but picking up speed little by little. He holds it every time he bottoms out, just long enough for Nick’s throat to flutter unbidden. He can hear the soft wet sounds of Griffin fucking his mouth - without his lips sealed around Griffin’s dick the noise is only amplified, the only thing Nick can hear in the muffled haze around him. His cock throbs.

“God,” Griffin says, like it's being punched out of him. Nick looks up for the first time in a while to find Griffin looking back down at him. He's got a hand on Nick’s face again, smoothing hair off his forehead, stroking a thumb across his cheekbone. “God, Nick, you're so fucking pretty. I swear this is all I wanna see your mouth doing, just -” He groans, and Nick lets out a choked little noise as he thrusts in so deep - Nick’s not sure he can manage it, until somehow he does, though his eyes start to prickle.

“- just gaping open for me,” Griffin gasps, and Nick blinks away the wetness in his eyes until he can see clearly again. “Nick, I’m gonna come, are you -”

And Nick hums, tightens his throat and rolls his tongue despite everything Griffin said, desperate to send the message that he should, he _should_ , he has to.

“Fuck,” Griffin whispers, and he pulses in Nick’s mouth and pulls back just in time to come on Nick’s tongue.

Griffin uses his hand to work himself through the last waves, the other still woven through Nick’s hair. Nick breathes through his nose, trying to keep from drooling any more than he already has, but it's a long few moments before Griffin seems to realize that he's waiting. “You can close your mouth,” Griffin says, sounding winded. “God, Nick -”

Nick pulls his tongue back in his mouth, swallows a few times, and wills his racing pulse to slow. It won't, of course, and the pain in his jaw is only surpassed by the ache in his dick. When Griffin falls to his knees in front of Nick and starts to pull down his boxers, the relief is so strong Nick only just keeps from keeling over into him. “Jesus Christ,” Griffin says, and Nick doesn't know what prompts it. His understanding of the world has narrowed down to the places where Griffin’s touching him (a bracing hand on his shoulder, another squeezing his hip) and the crushing need to be touched elsewhere.

Finally, finally, Griffin wraps a hand around him, and Nick sobs, dry and startling. It’s too loud in the quiet room but Griffin just says, “Oh, _Nick_ -” and he moves closer, lets Nick round his shoulders and slump into him, the side of his face pressed to Griffin’s collarbone. Griffin’s hand is dry and it's a little too much friction, though Nick can't muster up the verbal skills to tell him; but Griffin feels it, lifts his hand and says, so gently, “Lick.”

It's a blissfully easy command. Nick does, and it's better this time, less sharp - something's rolling inside of him, mounting like waves headed for the shore, and he grips Griffin’s shoulders as Griffin’s hand twists, wrenches a groan from his chest. He’s convinced for a moment that he'll never think straight again, that this haze is going to last and he can spend eternity letting Griffin hold him like this, pull him apart and praise him for it, and then he comes without warning, so fast and hard that he doesn't even make a sound. His throat closes up and he clings to Griffin and lets the feeling wash over him.

“It’s okay,” Griffin says, his free hand curled around the back of Nick’s neck now. And then he says, again, like it has some meaning Nick’s muddled brain just can't grasp right now, “Oh, Nick.”

Griffin wraps his other arm around Nick’s back and pulls them closer. Nick's panting, trying to make his breaths come slower and failing so far, so he doesn't speak up to say _We’ll stick together._ Maybe it doesn't matter. Griffin’s stroking his back and rubbing a thumb along the nape of his neck and saying something that Nick has to fight to focus on.

“You’re incredible, you know that, Nick, you gotta say something in the next few minutes or I’m gonna get worried…”

Nick’s chest finally stops heaving. His head still feels light, but at least he feels like he's actually getting the oxygen from the air around him. He’s starting to feel a little silly, but for the first time in a while Griffin seems far from amused. “I’m fine,” he says, and turns his face into Griffin's neck. “I’m good. Can we lie down?”

And he's stupidly proud of himself when he manages to get up and keep his legs under him. There had been a flicker of doubt in his mind, if he's honest. Griffin leads him to the bed, lays him down, and comes back a moment later with a washcloth for them both.

“We probably shouldn't fall asleep,” Griffin says, lying next to him after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s like, three pm -”

“I’m not tired,” Nick says, rolling onto his side and against Griffin’s. And he isn't - there’s a weird energy coursing through him all of a sudden. It might be the euphoria from very nearly hyperventilating.

“Okay.” Griffin tucks an arm beneath Nick’s head and stares up at the ceiling. “You're - you are good, right? It wasn't -”

“I’m good,” Nick says, pressing a hand into his chest in a feeble admonishment. They’re quiet for a moment, heartbeats still slowing, until Nick bursts into giggles - he can't help himself. “You made me forget the Appalachian mountains,” he says, and Griffin doesn't protest the wording, just laughs along with him.

“You’d have gotten it after another minute,” Griffin says, and Nick nods, slinging his arm across Griffin’s belly. “Probably.”

"Dick," Nick mutters, and Griffin starts to laugh again. 


End file.
